Secret Valentine


Long ago, Mom was our small town’s librarian, and I remember her telling me about an older man coming to the library almost every day just to sit and draw. He was an exceptionably gifted artist.

Mom thought of herself as an amateur artist, so she would often ask the man questions about his art and some of his techniques. She always enjoyed seeing his sketches. 


He also made intricately decorated cards for the holidays. Mom especially admired those.


Then one Valentine’s Day, a few random people in town received beautifully handcrafted cards—sent anonymously. The next year it happened again, and each Valentine’s Day thereafter.


It was kind of a sweet secret in our little town—and no one seemed to know who it was. I think the local paper even wrote about the mysterious Valentine.


But the recipients were those who needed a bit of encouragement. Whoever it was seemed to know who could use some joy.




I don’t think anyone ever found out who the Secret Valentine was.


Years later, and just a few weeks before Mom passed on, she and I were going through her photo albums—and I was jotting down names and dates alongside the pictures. Tucked inside one of the pages was a beautifully handmade Valentine’s card.


“Who was this from?” I asked. 


Mom shook her head, as if to say “No”.  She reached out for me to hand her the card.


I scrutinized the envelope—no return address, but it came from our small town. It also came the same year Mom had moved away and begun a new chapter in her life. Was this from the Secret Valentine?


I thought about the older man who’d come to sit and draw in the library, and all the cards he’d made for the holidays.


He would have known Mom had left town. Had he sent her the Valentine?  Was he the one who’d sent out all the other Valentines?


If Mom knew the Secret Valentine’s identity, she never told anyone—but librarians can keep secrets. And she did.




 


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